


Wintry Mix

by SomebodyOwens



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bad Weather, Cabin Fic, Clint Barton Needs a Hug, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-12
Updated: 2014-12-12
Packaged: 2018-02-27 10:03:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2688731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SomebodyOwens/pseuds/SomebodyOwens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wintry mix: the frankly miserable combination of rain, sleet, and snow that Appalachian winters do so well.  </p><p>Or: gross weather, a few bad guys, a cozy cabin, and--eventually--a happy ending.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wintry Mix

**Author's Note:**

> With endless thanks to [Chaneen](http://thisischaneen.tumblr.com/) for her generous and helpful beta!
> 
> Prompt: Phil has this little custom, where, if he has time to spend at home, he enjoys taking care of his shoes. A bit of spit and polish is just what they need, and they carry him through so much, it's only fair he takes care of them back. So he sets up his space, a small side table, cloth, shoe polish, gets his glasses on, and sets to work. Clint watches him work, and listens to the small noises of contentment Phil keeps making when he likes what he sees, and gets so turned on he can't see straight.

Clint has spent summers in the desert and winters in the tundra, but sitting in this relentless not-quite-freezing rain is a special kind of misery. The rain seeps into his boots and under his collar, and just as it starts to taper off, the wind picks up and whisks away whatever little bit of body heat Clint had managed to preserve. Extreme climates require extra fancy protective gear and careful planning. An op at a lumber mill in the middle of nowhere Appalachia only gets standard gear, which leaves Clint hunched over his scope, a damp and chilled lump of sniper. 

Not that Clint's complaining too loudly, mind you. Despite the gross weather, he is only chilled, rather than staring down a nasty case of hypothermia. Only the very best in gloves and hats for SHIELD; it's probably not part of their recruitment pitch, but it should be. 

That said, the plastic walls of the cherry picker bucket he is perched in offer a meager amount of shelter from the wind, but the metal grating under his knees isn't helping with the chill. At least it's not a solid floor so he's not sitting in a puddle. That may well be the only thing this perch has going for it. Even the view it affords of the site is passable but not spectacular, though the distinct lack of target suggests that Clint's tranq darts will go unused. The sleet that had been threatening earlier has thankfully held out, but Clint is pretty sure his luck won't hold once the sun sets. Hopefully Markham will come to the same realization, and sooner rather than later. 

And hopefully Markham won't still be pissed about the Christmas carols that Clint hummed the entire ride down from DC. Or at least not pissed enough to leave Clint out in the cold for too much longer. 

When 4pm comes and goes with no word from Markham, Clint rolls his eyes and taps his earpiece, which crackles once and then goes silent. After taking a moment to glare at the heavy grey clouds above him, Clint digs out his cell phone and calls Markham himself. 

"4pm check in. Still not even a hint of the target. And if he hasn't shown in eight hours, he's not gonna show at all. If I promise not to sing any more Christmas carols, can I come it?"

There's a brief moment of silence, then a voice not belonging to Markham says, "Barton?"

"Coulson?"

"Definitely not," says Phil's dry and thoroughly unmistakable voice.

"I thought you were in Florida."

"The weather was too miserable so I came back."

In a moment of perfect symmetry that Clint would appreciate if he wasn't so exposed, the precipitation chooses that moment to shift from rain to sleet, rattling against metal and plastic with renewed ferocity. 

"It's always nice to hear your dulcet tones, sir, but it's raining pretty hard--"

"Barton, what are you doing?" Phil sounds like he's dreading Clint's response, and Clint can't fault him that. 

"Staring at the very boring lumber yard I've been looking at for the last eight hours. Still no sign of Tagget or any of his people." Something is very off about their entire conversation, starting with the fact that Phil answered Markham's phone. Maybe Tagget moved the meet elsewhere and Phil's Florida contact wasn't the long shot he thought it was going to be. 

"That bastard!" There's a thunk that Clint imagines is Phil hitting the table in front of him, and an increased murmur of voices in the background in response to his outburst.

"I'm not saying Tagget's a good guy, but--"

"Barton. Do you have a vehicle?"

"What's going on?"

"I promise I'll explain it all when I see you, but right now I need you to find wheels and get to the location I just sent." Clint can't shake the feeling that something is seriously wrong, and Phil's evasion doesn't help.

"Are _you_ OK, sir?" Abruptly it occurs to Clint that the background chatter could be less than friendly. "Um. Is your favorite band still Led Zeppelin?"

"What? No, I prefer Jethro Tull, and I'm _fine_ , Barton. No need for challenge codes. I just need you to focus. Can you get wheels?" 

"Yeah, there's a couple of company trucks around here."

"Good. I'll see you when you get here. Shouldn't take more than an hour. And Barton, I'm sorry." The call goes silent and Clint glares at his phone, which helpfully shows a new text that does indeed contain a set of coordinates. 

With no other options, Clint hauls himself up and gathers his gear, and though a less-than-graceful combination of climbing and skidding, makes his way down the hydraulic lift to the parking lot below. The puddles are already turning slushy and Clint lands with an unpleasant sploosh. The ground provides no more cover from the sleet, so he tugs his hood down as far as it will go before heading towards the trio of SUVs. 

It's a matter of minutes to hotwire the truck and head out to the main road. He's no longer out in the rain but the truck's heat is apparently shot, so Clint shivers his way through the hour-long drive, still damp, cold, and miserable, and now confused as well. 

The coordinates take him over a couple of mountains and finally leave him in a parking lot for what turns out to be another lumber yard. For a brief moment, Clint wonders if he has just driven into a trap, and then a person steps out from behind a line of cars. 

Only Phil Coulson could look so thoroughly unruffled while wearing a vibrant blue insulated rain jacket. 

Clint drives over, neatly parks his stolen truck, and opens the door.

"Fancy meeting you here, sir."

Because he is awesome, Phil pops the trunk of a nearby car so Clint can stash his bag, then hands him a steaming styrofoam cup. While Clint is happily inhaling the coffee fumes, Phil drapes a towel over his shoulders.

"It's mostly unavoidable, but I'd rather you didn't leave too many puddles in the car." 

Once Clint is settled in the passenger seat, Phil trades him the towel for a crinkly silver emergency blanket, which isn't as cuddly but will warm him up far faster. The car's heat cranked to full blast helps, but Clint is still left to battle a nasty case of shivers while his body heats back up.

Clint waits until they've been driving in comfortable silence for a while before looking over expectantly. "Want to tell me why I just spent an entire day freezing my ass off while my handler apparently fucked off and handed the op to you without bothering to tell me?" His still-chattering teeth help sell the point. 

There are a wide variety of explanations that Clint expects, but none of them are what Phil grits out: "Markham went rogue." 

"No."

"Yes. The details are in the report, but apparently Tagget has a connection that we missed, to a local Senator who's been pushing the fracking agenda. Markham's uncle works for one of the fracking companies sniffing around out here, and he decided to throw his lot in with them instead of SHIELD."

"So he just waltzed off and took the explosives, too?"

"Well, yes and no. He apparently told Tagget he could get a better price for the explosives on the open market, and helpfully alerted SHIELD to Tagget's location. So Tagget is currently sitting in a deep, dark hole after severely underestimating Agent Wu's grappling skills. I spent most of my day... talking to him, piecing together what happened."

It stings a little that Phil took all day to figure out that Clint wasn't working with Markham, so he doesn't bother hiding the bite in his voice when he says, "What made you decide I wasn't hiding out somewhere with a fresh pile of cash?"

"What? No! Barton-- Clint. That was never a possibility, I swear." Phil winces. "Markham did something to your earpiece and phone so they registered as being back at the Triskelion. It wasn't until you called in that I realized our-- _my_ mistake. I'm sorry." A warmth that has nothing to do with the coffee spreads through Clint's chest. "Let me spell this out clearly: your loyalty to SHIELD has been proven and re-proven, and is not being questioned."

Feeling more magnanimous all of a sudden, Clint waves the hand not clutching his nearly-empty coffee. "You were busy chasing after rogue agents. One misplaced sniper isn't so bad."

Phil frowns but doesn't argue the point, and instead turns the truck onto a gravel road. The ice is already forming sheets across the road and their tires skid slightly. Once the car is traveling steady again, Phil points to a small clearing visible up ahead. "That's the safe house we're headed to. All the properties out here are seasonal properties or rentals, so the house should be fully furnished. Once we're in, I'll call the Director to see where he wants us tomorrow."

They are at the base of a worryingly steep driveway when movement and a glint of metal through the rain catches Clint's eye. He barely has time to shout a warning before the first shots ring out. The windshield shatters and, despite Phil's masterful handling, the car spins in a sickening circle, before taking a nosedive into the ditch. Rattled but uninjured, Clint scrambles out of his seatbelt and nudges Phil. 

For one horrifying second, Phil doesn't move. Then he groans once and mutters, "Glovebox!" while unholstering his own sidearm and struggling out of the car. The glovebox reveals itself to be a tiny weapons storage, and Clint grabs both a handgun and a pair of knives before diving across the seat and following Phil out and behind the car. A second pair of shots shatters the rear window, revealing Markham standing in the road.

Clint and Phil move seamlessly as Phil steps further into the ditch, checking for Markham's back up, as Clint flicks his wrist and sends one of his knives flying at Markham. The blade lodges in Markham's shoulder, but he sprints around a curve and out of sight before they can land any more hits. An engine revs as Markham's car drives away, still out of sight. Pursuit on foot would be pointless, and there are more than a few other agents in the area just waiting for Markham to show his face again.

The icy ditch is surprisingly deep and the car isn't going anywhere, so Clint and Phil collect their bags from the trunk and trudge, soggy but uninjured, up the driveway to the little log cabin waiting for them. It's almost anticlimactic when their sweep of the house turns up empty. No bugs, no rogue agents, no more surprises. 

The safehouse is small and cold, but appears to be well furnished. Once they're inside, Clint flips the wall switch and is stupidly grateful when warm incandescent light floods the room. Functional electricity suggests functional hot water too, which means there might be a shower in his future. For a moment, they stand shoulder to shoulder, dripping and shivering in the entryway. Then Phil steps forward, lets go of his bags, and drops heavily into a chair. "Fuck today."

"Agreed, sir."

"Want to start a fire? I need to check in with Fury, let him know about our friend." 

Clint nods, and heads to the back of the house where he'd seen a decent tarp-covered woodpile. Whoever stocked the safehouse did an excellent job, and there's a bucket of kindling under the tarp, too. Clint grabs a handful and a few small logs and ducks back inside. A few minutes' work and thin tendrils of heat are already curling out of the stove's open door. He tosses another log on the flames, then stands up. "I'm gonna take a shower and defrost the rest of the way, unless you need the bathroom"

Phil waves Clint on. "It's all yours. This place is stocked for extended stays, so there should be clothes in the bedroom."

The shower is a thing of beauty, and Clint stays under the scalding water until his skin is flushed and his fingers stop burning and he feels warm right down to his core. Phil, who has helped himself to dry clothes if the oversized sweatshirt is any indication, looks up briefly from scribbling notes at the table when Clint steps out of the bathroom, rosy pink and wrapped in a towel and a cloud of steam. Clint grins sheepishly, but Phil frowns back down at his paper almost immediately. 

When Clint emerges from the bedroom, now clad in soft sweatpants and a hoodie that come surprisingly close to fitting properly, Phil looks up again, one ear pressed against his cell phone. "Oh hey, he's here. Tell him yourself." 

Phil taps the speaker button and sets the phone on the table, and Fury's voice projects with only slightly less force than in person. "Barton! Markham's a fuckin' idiot who walked right into our arms. Local cops picked him up at the hospital, and handed him over without asking questions for once" There's a pause, then, "Good job on not killing him; scaring him shitless is fun."

"Thank you, sir? Glad Markham won't be knocking on our door tonight."

"Keep your heads down, but I think we got 'em all."

Phil picks the phone up again and nods towards the kitchenette. "There's soup on the stove. Canned, but it's warm." Clint wanders over to see a half-full pot of something heavy with meat and potatoes steaming on the stovetop. There's a bowl, spoon, and hilariously, a little pile of goldfish crackers waiting for him. He dumps the rest of the soup into his bowl, mouth watering at the rich smell, then sprinkles the crackers on top. He takes the whole ensemble back to the living room, with its enticing combination of comfy couch and crackling wood stove.

Once his belly is full, the squishy couch and the warmth from the wood stove lull Clint into a doze. He can hear Phil moving around briefly, but the cabin stays quiet except for the crackling stove, so Clint lets himself nod off. 

He wakes sometime later when a sharp smell reaches his nose. 

He crack an eye and sees that Phil has pulled his chair away from the paper-strewn table and over to the wood stove, and has draped an old towel over his lap. His sock-covered feet are resting on the hearth and there's an unlaced shoe sitting next to them. Its mate is in Phil's lap, along with the source of the smell: a little pot of black shoe polish. Clint can see the lid, with its distinctive red "Kiwi" label, on the floor. It probably says something that Clint recognizes Phil's shoe polish brand (and, even more telling, knows he prefers Meltonian for its range of shades). 

As Clint watches, Phil tugs the laces out of the shoe and carefully tucks them into the toe. Then he wraps a rag around two fingers, swirls them gently across the surface of the polish, and after a deep breath, carefully rubs the polish across the shoe. 

With Phil's focus squarely on his project, Clint has no problem letting his sight linger. Phil's broad shoulders and muscular arms--and seriously, how can someone look so fantastic in a worn and rumpled sweatshirt?--are always pleasant eye candy, but it's rare that Clint has a chance to watch uninterrupted while Phil works. 

Phil starts at the toe with little circles, gradually working his way towards the heel with longer and longer strokes. He traces each seam line carefully, fingers gracefully massaging the polish into the leather. As he works, his glasses slowly slide down his nose, and he absentmindedly brushes them back into place, leaving the barest smear of polish on his cheek. Clint thinks about smoothing it away, tipping Phil's chin up and--nope. Not the right time for that line of thinking at all.

Once the entire shoe is covered in waxy polish, Phil repeats the process with a clean rag, again starting with little circles then expanding to broad, sweeping strokes. Clint has seen Phil turn a pair of muddied, scuffed oxfords into gleaming specimens in mere minutes, but now he seems to be lost in the repetition of his task. 

Eventually, the shoe is shiny enough that Clint can see the reflected kitchen light bulbs on its surface, but Phil keeps smoothing across it, tracing each grommeted lace hole with a single finger and dragging his thumb slowly over each seam. Inspection finished, Phil breathes wetly against the leather and gives it a final brush with his cloth. 

Phil hums with pleasure and the sound startles Clint. Abruptly, he realizes that he's hard and his hips have been gently grinding into the couch in time with Phil's strokes. He freezes. It's not a surprise, his reaction, just a whole world of not the right time or place. 

Which seems to be a common thread with them. They kissed, once before, and it was one hell of a kiss. 

Clint's pretty sure he leaned in first, but it was Phil who had pressed their bodies together and licked his way inside when Clint gasped against his mouth. If the way he tugged at Clint's bottom lip and moaned into his mouth wasn't clear enough, the hard-on nudging at Clint's hip had made Phil's interest in the kiss perfectly clear. When they'd paused to breathe, Phil leaned his forehead against Clint's briefly, then stepped away. "As much as I want to continue, we really can't do this here, and we're in danger of being late to the briefing." He'd stepped back, brushed Clint's spit slick lips once with his thumb, and turned smartly down the hall. 

And then it was the briefing and chasing after a scientist making toxic coffee beans ("Death to the caffeine zombies!"), and more meetings and meals spent pouring over files in Phil's office, and Phil never said a word about the kiss. In the weeks afterward, Phil acted like nothing had changed. Clint tried not take it personally; if one kiss was enough, then Clint would take it and the friendship he offered instead, and that would be enough.

And it was. Most of the time.

Satisfied that the shoe is gleaming, Phil sets it carefully on the hearth with its equally shiny mate and clicks the lid back on the polish tin. But instead of getting up, Phil leans his elbows on his knees and spins the tin in his hand, snapping the lid on and off absentmindedly while staring morosely into the fire. 

Finally, Clint breaks the silence. "What's with the shoe polish?"

Phil doesn't startle, and keeps flicking the tin between his fingers. "Just wanted to accomplish something without fucking it up." He seems to realize that he spoke without thinking and sets the tin of polish down with a clink before scrubbing at his face with his hands. When he looks up again, the Impervious Agent Phil mask is in place. "Shoe polish can be--"

Clint is warm and full and comfortable, and feeling braver than he has in a while, so he waves his hand carelessly. "Hey, put that face away. I know what shoe polish is for, and I liked the radical honesty thing better." Phil blinks slowly and doesn't respond, but his shoulders relax minutely, so Clint continues. "Tit for tat? I get it. There's a reason I shoot so many smiley faces and hearts when I'm on the range; sometimes I gotta be able to say 'I did that and I did it right."

"If I recall, I'm the one who suggested that as a tactic for you. If we're trading truths, that doesn't count." It's not a smile on Phil's face, but the barest hint of a smirk is there as he twists in his chair so he can face Clint. 

Clint grins right back. "Fine. I've drunk a Coke in every country that I've been to. Well, except Yemin, but I was drugged and tied to a chair the whole time I was there so that doesn't count."

Phil winces, but only says, "I don't own a single pair of solid colored socks; they're all printed or patterned in some way." He wiggles his toes, currently covered in plain black socks. "These don't count; I found them in a drawer here." Clint nods, filing away "ridiculous socks" as solid gift potential. 

"Well, I've never pulled a coffee-related prank at SHIELD. Most of them have been Jasper, I think, because he drinks tea and laughs at everyone dumping salt into their coffee or whatever."

Finally Phil's smirk emerges, fully formed. "I know; I distracted Fury so Jasper could get at his secret coffee stash."

Clint chuckles. "Ooo, hit him where it hurts. Did he do something in particular to deserve your wrath?" When Phil just blinks, Clint sighs and offers up another fact. "Fine, fine. I love gummy worms but don't ever eat them because they give me hiccups."

The laugh that Phil smothers isn't subtle. "Poor you. The payback was because Fury started the rumor that we've been conducting an illicit affair since our Rangers days."

Clint shakes his head in admiration. "Damn. That story's been around for years and still hasn't died. Did you know that Hill actually asked me about it?"

"She did? And what did you say?"

"That I didn't know anything about an affair, but you'd been in love with Nick Fury the entire time I've know you." He means it as a joke (and Hill had cackled when he'd told her) but the statement falls flat now. 

"I'm not, you know." Phil pauses. "More honesty? I have my eye on someone else."

Clint does an admirable job of not reacting. There's a reason they pay him the big spy bucks, after all. Keep a straight face and be happy with what you have.

But Phil knows every one of his tells, because there's no way that this, "sorry your crush is unrequited" conversation could be easy.

"It's you, Clint." Phil must see Clint's shocked expression, because he hurries to explain. "Of course it's you. I panicked after I kissed you and then you didn't seem to care either way and I couldn't..." He trails off, looking disappointed and tired and maybe a little nervous. I know you probably have a hundred other, better offers." He closes his eyes briefly, then looks steadily at Clint. "Would you consider giving me a second chance?"

Clint digests the question for a moment and comes to a decision. "Phil. Truth? I'm going to kiss you now unless you object." 

And he rolls off the couch and does exactly that. With one hand braced on the back of Phil's chair and one hand stroking across his surprisingly scruffy jaw, Clint carefully brushes their lips together. This time, it's Phil who gasps and Clint who presses the advantage. Phil's hands come up to rest at Clint's waist, and his back twinges just enough that he pulls back. 

"Let's take this somewhere more comfortable." Clint offers a hand and pulls Phil out of his chair so their bodies end up pressed together, then carefully walks Phil backward until they collapse on the couch in a tangle of limbs. Clint gleefully takes the opportunity to brush his cheek and neck against Phil's stubble, reveling in the scratch and drag. And then Phil's tongue dips into the hollow of his throat and the nibbling kisses that Phil traces across his neck steal all of Clint's brainpower. 

His hands find their way under Phil's shirt and Phil shivers. Clint takes a moment to regret not being able to peel Phil out of his suit button by button, but the suit is dripping in the bathroom and besides, Phil's soft sweats make it that much easier for Clint to slide a hand under his waistband. Phil gasps when Clint finally curls his hand around Phil's cock, and moans aloud when Clint bites at the tendons standing out from his neck. When Clint gentles the bite with little licks, Phil shivers and that gives Clint his inspiration.

He lets his knees slide off the couch and rubs his face against Phil's stomach, then breathes wetly against the bulge in Phil's pants. Phil pats weakly at Clint's shoulders, and then seems to realize where he's headed. He mutters, "You don't have to--" before Clint has freed his cock and wrapped his lips around the head. 

The angle is a little awkward, so Clint doesn't try to show off, just takes Phil as far as he can then pulls back with as much suction as he can manage. He adds a little extra tongue, and it's not long before Phil is making increasingly desperate, choked off noises. When he tangles his fingers in Clint's hair, Clint hums happily, and that's all it takes.

Phil comes with a quiet gasp, shaking under Clint, hands grasping weakly at Clint's shoulders and smoothing over his face. Clint swallows quickly, then wipes his mouth and sits up, smirking down at Phil's glassy-eyed stare. Phil is still breathing heavily, but he latches a hand onto Clint's bicep and tugs. Clint follows, laying alongside Phil on the couch, and finds himself the recipient of a sloppy kiss as Phil chases his own taste in Clint's mouth.

When Phil pulls back, his lips are shiny and his cheeks are flushed. "What do you need? Want me to suck you?"

"I won't say no, but another truth? I really, really want your hands on me." Phil nods once, still slightly dazed, then makes the connection. 

"You liked watching me work. With the polish."

"Yeah. I always like-- oooh." Clint trails off with a gasp as Phil tugs his waistband down and curls both hands around Clint's cock. One hand squeezes gently while the other traces over the head, and Clint loses all power of speech. Slowly and carefully, Phil explores his cock, tracing the visible veins and dragging his fingertips over the head in torturous spirals. 

Clint moans, and his hips thrust upwards and his cock strains, desperately seeking more friction, but Phil continues unswayed, interspersing the almost unbearable teases and caresses with smooth, firm strokes. Occasionally, he leans down to brush kisses across Clint's jaw or nibble at his lips, but Phil's hands never leave his cock and Clint is so hard he can barely breathe. The steady dribble of precome from his cock only makes Phil's hands slide that much more smoothly over his hot skin. When Phil drags his calloused thumb over the slit, Clint loses his last bit of composure and starts babbling, words spilling from his mouth. 

"So good it's so good. I need more; please, Phil, please. More, oh god it feels so-- please. Please more. Please, Phil!"

Finally, Phil ceases his exploration and takes up a steady rhythm, one hand working Clint's cock and one delicately tugging at his balls. It doesn't take long at all, and when Phil presses a knuckle just behind his balls, Clint's vision whites out and he comes with an orgasm that leaves him a painting, boneless heap.

When Clint can bring himself to move again, he rolls off the couch, knees buckling before they decide to hold his weight, and offers a hand to Phil. 

"Bed time?"

"Definitely." Phil takes the offered hand but, instead of getting up, uses it to reel Clint back in for one more kiss. When they break apart, Phil stands, but keeps his fingers tangled with Clint's until they separate to close up for the night. 

Once the stove is packed and the cabin locked up tight, they ready themselves for bed, moving together just as seamlessly as always. Clint reaches the bed first and bounces a few times while he waits for Phil. Instead of sitting on the other side, Phil straddles Clint's lap and kisses him soundly, then knocks them both backward. Together, they squirm under the blankets, trading lazy kisses and caresses until sleep claims them both.

Soft grey light is filtering into the room when Clint finally drags himself into wakefulness. He's pleasantly warm, tucked against Phil's side. Phil murmurs a "good morning" and noses at the back of Clint's neck. Some part of Clint's brain thinks this should be awkward, but it's surprisingly easy to roll over and nuzzle against Phil's warm, solid chest. 

"Look outside." Phil nudges Clint and nods towards the window, where snow is falling softly. "It was still sleet when we went to bed, so if that snow keeps up, we're not going anywhere for a couple of days." He smiles softly at Clint, who can't resist the opportunity to nibble at his lip and slide a hand up his thigh.

"I bet I can think of a few things to keep us occupied."


End file.
